Human-Centaur Relations Read online

  "Like what?"

  "Oh, we learned how to grow food, for one thing. They were the ones who taught us to farm. They were the ones who made it so that we could settle down and think about things other than just surviving."

  "What things?"

  "Art. Music. Math and science. Our own history," Grandpa replied. "Imagine if instead of coming home from school and playing video games, you had to go out and hunt every day."

  "I'd be a great hunter!" Bryce said enthusiastically, holding his hands up as if firing a rifle.

  "Oh, no," Grandpa said emphatically. "You don't get a gun; they haven't been invented. You can have a bow and arrows, though," he added, grinning.

  "I can hunt with a bow and arrow!" Bryce protested.

  Grandpa grinned. "And what about your video games? What about this nice cabin? What about that comfortable bed?"

  "What about them?" Bryce asked defensively, clutching the covers as if someone was going to take them away.

  "If you had to spend your whole day hunting just to bring home enough food for you and your family, when would you have time to invent a bed?"

  Bryce bit his lip, then brightened. "On the weekends! Or on summer vacation!"

  Grandpa gave an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, kiddo, but you have to hunt year-round, especially during the summer. And during autumn and spring, you're moving camp to follow the animals you hunt."

  "Weekends?!" Bryce looked panicked.

  "Nope, no weekends, either," Grandpa said somberly. "You might go out during the week and not catch anything. Your family is very hungry; no rest for the weary."

  Bryce sat silently, mulling it over.

  "But the centaurs taught us how to grow food," Grandpa said again, "and because we could grow food, we could store it away for another day. We didn't have to travel all the time to chase our food; we could stay in one place. Soon, people could make more food than they could eat themselves. People realized that this guy could grow potatoes while that guy could grow corn. They learned to trade. Because there's a lot of down time growing crops, people began to have free time. People got interested in pastimes: singing and playing instruments for the joy of making music rather than for going to a hunt, making art for the sake of beauty, inventing and studying mathematics and science for the interest in knowing how the world works. People had time to make things better, like better houses, clothes, and yes, eventually guns and video games. Through a very long progression, things we take for granted, like comfortable beds and cars, came to be because our ancestors had the time to think them up. Just think," he said, grinning, "you could be sleeping in a tent made of animal hides, lying on the ground with naught but animal hides for softness and warmth!"

  Bryce shriveled up his nose and hugged his blanket close. "I like my blankets," he said petulantly.

  "So do I," Grandpa chuckled. "The centaurs may not have made that blanket for you, but they gave us what we needed to get there," he said reverently. "Until one day."

  Bryce frowned. "What happened, Grandpa?"

  Grandpa sighed. "People got entitled, Bryce."

  "What's entitled?"

  "Believing somebody owes something to you," Grandpa replied. "For instance, if you think you're entitled to ice cream, that means that you deserve to have ice cream, and somebody must bring it to you." Bryce's eyes lit up. "Don't get any ideas," Grandpa said with an amused frown. "They took for granted what the centaurs had given them. The centaurs were much better hunters, so why shouldn't we let them hunt for us? The centaurs were better at building things and stronger than we were, so why shouldn't we have them build things for us?"

  Bryce nodded, and Grandpa continued. "More and more, we sat back and let them do things for us, and they did it out of generosity and goodwill. They had taught us so much that we were certainly capable of hunting for ourselves, of building cranes to lift things for us, but people began to expect the centaurs to do it for them. After all, after several generations, that's just how it always had been. At some point, the centaurs got tired of doing our work for us."

  "I'll bet!"

  Grandpa nodded. "And they told us that we would have to fend for ourselves. Imagine somebody always bringing you a bowl of ice cream when you get home, every day as far back as you can remember, and then one day it wasn't there. I'm sure you'd ask, 'hey, what gives?'"

  "Yeah! Where's my ice cream?" Bryce gave a demanding look, squeezing his blankets.

  "Exactly!" Grandpa said, leaning in close. "And you know what the centaurs did?"

  "What?" Bryce's eyes glowed with excitement.

  "They told us to get our own ice cream!" Grandpa declared, giving a look of mock astonishment.

  "Why, those dirty, good-for-nothing–" Bryce pouted and made a face.

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa, there!" Grandpa chided. "Who says you deserve ice cream?"

  Bryce cringed. "Well, um..."

  "Yeah," Grandpa said, cringing himself. "We did the same thing. We figured that we must be pretty awesome to always get everything handed to us, and we didn't like being told to fend for ourselves. So we tried to force them to do it."

  Bryce's eyes widened. "Force them?"

  "Yeah," Grandpa said, shriveling his nose in regretful distaste, "we got our warriors together and told them we'd attack them if they didn't do what we wanted them to do."

  "Really?" Bryce asked incredulously. "But didn't you say they were better hunters and smarter and all?"

  "Yup," Grandpa replied, cringing. "Pretty bad move, huh?"

  "Really bad move!" Bryce said emphatically. Grandpa said nothing, staring off into space.

  "What happened, Grandpa?" Bryce asked at length.

  Grandpa stirred from his daydream and sighed. "We were no match for them, of course. They knew it, and we knew it. They tried to reason with us, to warn us not to do it, but our ancestors were very determined. Eventually they left the centaurs no choice but to fight back, and they did. They killed off the people who tried to enslave them and retreated to the forests."

  Bryce's face fell. "So they did kill people, then?" he asked reproachfully.

  "Afraid so, kiddo," Grandpa replied, "but only as their last recourse. They weren't drunkards; they weren't violent. They were peaceful, very smart, very kind, and very...how would you say it...high on life."

  "What do you mean, 'high on life,' Grandpa?"

  "They lived every day to its fullest. They were genuinely happy. They ate food and delighted in it. They drank and enjoyed themselves. They sang — oh, how they sang! They had songs for everything. They rejoiced at life and everything to do with it. When someone was born, they sang and feasted. When someone discovered something new, they sang and feasted. That changed, though." Grandpa grew silent again.

  "How, Grandpa?"

  "After they killed off their would-be masters, the centaurs were filled with sadness and guilt. They ran off into the woods and were never seen again. They just disappeared. You never find any bones of a centaur, do you?"

  Bryce frowned and shook his head.

  "The humans felt guilty, too, but instead of trying to make amends, they told lies to each other: that because the centaurs drank, they must have drunk too much, that because the centaurs feasted, they must have been gluttonous, that because the centaurs enjoyed everything they did, they must have been bad, and most importantly, that because the centaurs had attacked men, they must be violent." He sighed, putting his hand on Bryce's shoulder. "Funny how you can look at a person and make all kinds of wrong judgments about him, isn't it?"

  Bryce frowned again. "But that's not funny at all, Grandpa! Why would that be funny?"

  Grandpa chuckled quietly. "It's a figure of speech, Bryce. Think of it like someone saying, 'it's interesting' or 'it's strange.'"

  Bryce nodded, mulling it over. "So, there aren't any more centaurs? Where did they go?"

  Grandpa shook his head. "No, Bryce, the centaurs all left somewhere. Most humans, the ones who believed the lies, figured that either mankind wiped th
em out, or they died off from being irresponsible."

  "But where did they really go?" Bryce persisted.

  Grandpa shook his head again. "I don't know, Bryce," he said, "but my grandpa told me that he thought they'd gone off, somewhere..." he gestured toward the ceiling with his hand.

  "The centaurs are aliens, Grandpa?" Bryce asked skeptically, crossing his arms over his chest under the covers.

  "They could be," Grandpa said wistfully. He glanced out the window at the full moon that was rising. "You know, the pyramids all the way over in Egypt, and Stonehenge, just a few miles from here, were built at around the same time. People have had a hard time explaining how they were built: after all, they both involved really big rocks. I think the centaurs left them there as a guide back to here."

  Bryce raised his eyebrows doubtfully. "Really, Grandpa? You tell me this great story and then make it about aliens from space?"

  "Hey!" Grandpa said, mildly defensively, "It's my story, and I'll tell it like it was told to me!"

  "If you say so," Bryce said, rolling over on his side and clutching Jacky close to him. "Good night, Grandpa," he said. After a moment, he added reluctantly, "Thanks for the story."

  Grandpa shook his head and smiled wryly, rising from his seat and kissing Bryce and Jacky on their foreheads. "Good night, Bryce."

  Kids these days. You can't tell them anything. He stepped outside again, looking up at the sky. In the distance, the moonlight was bathing Stonehenge in its glow, making the trilithons glow bright white.

  "Where are you?" Grandpa asked the sky longingly. He never brought it up again, but he hoped that he'd get to see a centaurs, just once, so that he could thank them.

  Chapter 4

  Ing'ma and Anul'thek made their way into the courtyard and were immediately ambushed by a herd of colts and fillies.

  "Tell us a story, Ing'ma!" one of the fillies said eagerly.

  "Yeah, tell us about Earth!" one of the colts prodded.

  "A story! A story!" the foals chorused, and Ing'ma and Anul'thek both burst out laughing at their antics.

  "All right, all right!" Ing'ma said, holding his hands up as if to shield himself from the onslaught. "Everybody gather near where the streams meet, and I'll tell you about Earth."

  The foals all bolted off to tell their friends and families that Ing'ma was going to tell a story, and Anul'thek followed him as he made his way down to where the streams met and sank into the belly of the ship.

  Ing'ma spoke in a conversational tone of voice, but the shape of the ship made his voice echo throughout the whole courtyard. "Everyone," he said, "I've been asked to tell the story of Earth for those who care to hear it."

  Those who hadn't heard the foals' shouts of excitement picked their heads up and gathered around. Ing'ma was by far the best of the storytellers the centaurs had, and the ship made it a magical experience.

  "Fourteen thousand years ago," Ing'ma said as the transparent dome of the ship darkened, "we used to live on a planet known by its residents as 'Earth.'" A ball of light appeared in the middle of the room in front of him and slowly grew into a likeness of the planet.

  "We started out here, in De'ru," Ing'ma said, pointing to the southern part of Britain, "but we learned that we could travel all over the world. Unlike Eve'gil, the planet was very diverse: there were mountains and oceans and deserts and plains and forests!" Images flashed before him as he named them, and red dots appeared and faded on the globe to give examples of where those images had existed all those millennia ago.

  "There were hot places and cold places, and our ancestors wanted to explore them all. They traveled all over the world, and they found three places that they liked the best. Many of us stayed at De'ru. Others sought a warmer climate and headed south to De'ne." He pointed to northern Africa. "Still others wanted the lush greenery of De'ru and the warmth of De'ne and traveled all the way around the planet. Those who settled there called it De'bar." His finger traced from Africa across Asia, up north of Korea, across the present-day Bering Strait, down Alaska, and down to the Yucatan peninsula as the planet-ball spun to keep his finger in roughly the same place.

  "Our ancestors saw many wondrous things," he said, his hands spreading, open-palmed in front of him towards his audience. "Animals that could run swiftly and tear a centaur into pieces!" He feigned a lunge toward some of the closer foals, who shrank back but returned, delighted.

  "There were animals that looked a lot like we did, who galloped across the ground but could not speak and who had different heads." Bands of horses thundered overhead, made a turn, and came galloping back toward the audience, who collectively sucked in its breath before the image disappeared.

  "There were great big animals that lumbered about and picked things up with their noses!" He imitated an elephant, stooping over and dangling his arm beneath his face. He came to one of the fillies and pawed at her face. The youth shriveled up her nose and batted at Ing'ma's hand. The adults and foals laughed.

  "There were animals that could fly!" An image of an eagle seemed to take off from his shoulder and soared around the room. Just as it disappeared at the edge of the courtyard, Ing'ma added, "All kinds of animals that could fly!" and swarms of bats, insects, and birds of all kinds took off in every direction across the ceiling. The audience gasped and marveled at all of the colors, birdsongs, and shapes.

  "There were little animals that ran on the ground, or hopped, or slithered!" Images of mice, rabbits, frogs, snakes, and lizards all took turns making their way around the room.

  "But of all the creatures," Ing'ma said, his voice lowered in reverence, "the most impressive one was Man." A picture of a primitive man appeared, clothed in animal skins, stooped, with a weathered face and dark, deep-set eyes. The foals looked up in wonder; the adults peered at the creature quizzically.

  "Man was different from the other animals," Ing'ma said. "He could use tools, and he made far more sounds than the other animals could. Our ancestors encountered man in many places, and it seemed that everywhere they went, they found man speaking a different language! Some spoke deep in their throats, and some squeaked out. Some boomed and some

  whispered. Some were fast, and some were slow. Eventually, we learned to talk with them. It wasn't easy!" He said animatedly, and the audience chuckled.

  "Man came in many varieties. Some male, some female." The primitive man was joined by a female, similarly clothed and haggard. "Some tall, some short, some dark, some light, some with little sprinkles of dots on their skin." More and more humans of different colors, heights, builds, and complexions joined the group.

  "Everywhere we went, we taught them what we knew: we saw how hard it was for them to hunt, and we taught them how to grow crops." Images of orchards and fields appeared, not unlike the familiar ones on Eve'gil.

  "We taught them the joys of cooperation, of art. We crafted great sculptures as tributes to our friendship, several in De'ru and several in De'ne: giant works of beauty and celebration using beautiful stones that would last many lifetimes." Images of the works appeared, and the audience gasped in awe at the beauty, the combination of mathematical precision and artistic expression.

  "We taught them music. Some of the songs we still sing today, our ancestors sang to them." He began to sing a pentatonic chant, a hymn of praise to life.

  As the audience picked up on it, young and old began to sing along, filling in the deep harmonies as the chorus began, and the whole ship reverberated with joyful voices. The crew, who had heard the singing and joined in, returned to their posts as Ing'ma continued his story.

  "Yes, friends, we taught them that one, yet it seems they soon forgot it. A sickness stirred within mankind, a need for more. We engaged in trade with them, we taught them, but that wasn't enough. Instead of life bringing them joy, it left them unfulfilled. They needed something that life wasn't providing," Ing'ma said, holding his cupped hands close to him, as if holding the thing that ancient mankind had sought.

  "What was it?" one of t
he foals asked, craning his neck to see into Ing'ma's hands.

  "More!" Ing'ma said, pushing his hands out towards the youth as if shoving a wave of water at him. Images of gold and wine and cattle and land and jewelry and castles all seemed to flow from his hands and covered the room in front of him with what at first seemed lavish and beautiful, but which kept coming, giving the audience a sense of stifling overabundance. And still it came, all the riches the Earth had to provide: metals, jewels, pottery, foods, fine fabrics, and on and on and on.

  "Yet even all this was not enough!" Ing'ma cried, leaving the images to smother his audience awhile longer. "They reaped riches that they could never appreciate," he said sadly as the images melted into rotting food, tarnished metal, and broken pottery.